The Stand-In Who Stole His Power

On my wedding day, I found out I was the stand-in.

I hid under the blankets, hands over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

That night I had spiked His Majesty’s cup with a whole jar of blisswine—using every trick I had to make him want me.

Hearing him mutter my elder sister’s name in a haze, I let a slow smile curve my lips.

Being the replacement? Worth every moment.

He is the emperor—so what? He’s just a convenient stepping stone for me.

[“Claire Insists on Being Ice” complete~ A ruthless heroine, cold and merciless] 01. I poisoned my legitimate sister to death.

She died with a twisted face, blood around her mouth and nose, her body convulsing as she collapsed to the floor.

I brushed the strands of hair from her face and, smiling, whispered in her ear, "Sister, you look so ugly when you die."

Killing and breaking hearts—I’m very good at both.

Her eyes stared at me, wild and unwilling, disbelief burning there: how could this idiotic, simpleborn younger half-sister of hers have detected the poison in her cup?

She didn’t even notice when I quietly swapped the cups right under her nose.

If it were possible, I wanted her to live again from fury alone. Too bad she couldn’t.

The poison was the heartbreak powder she herself had prepared for me. It didn’t ruin me—it ruined her.

The next day, at Empress Hazel’s funeral.

Alexander DuPont pressed his short sword to my throat. His eyes were the same glaring crimson as the blood at my neck.

He spoke each word like a blade, cold and unfeeling: "Claire Bennett, I will have you buried with Ari."

Even the day Ari died he hadn’t acted this intense. Now, in front of court, he put on this show of righteous fury and grief. It was ridiculous.

I wanted to ask my dead sister, and I wanted to ask myself: what is there about an emperor’s love worth hoping for?

I lowered my gaze and, under his heavy stare, gave a graceful, measured bow. Not humble, not proud. "Thank you for Your Majesty’s mercy."

Before he could react, I turned and announced loudly, "I will go and be buried with the Empress—and with the child in my womb."

The fury of his loyal ministers, a moment ago so hot, suddenly drained away like a tide receding.

They scrambled to change sides, dropping to their knees and begging His Majesty to spare the life of the unborn child—the only royal seed yet to be born.

My own father, General Henry Bennett, the commander who guards the nation, stood pale-faced. He dared not voice his anger.

Good. Everything had gone exactly as I predicted.

I turned back toward Alexander with a triumphant, arrogant smile.

Against the courtlight, his eyes were closed; his expression unreadable.

For a moment I was dizzy, thinking of Sam. Victory had probably gone to my head.

My name is Claire Bennett. I am one of many daughters born to the Bennett General’s household. The household always scorned my mother for her low birth and "allowed" me—

I grew up in the country with my mother.

At sixteen, when I first met the father I’d never known, the first thing my legal mother forced me to do was change my name.

I remember her contemptuous look, like she was staring down at an ant. "Claire—worthless, never fit for the stage. You’ll never measure up."

Too bad for her. I not only made it onto the stage—I ended up in the bed of her precious legitimate daughter.

And clearly I was luckier than her short-lived child.

I gently stroked the child in my still-quiet belly and smiled.

With this child, what could Alexander really do to me?

Everyone knows the emperor is devoted. Aside from my sister, the late empress, he never favored any concubine.

Oh—except for me. I had the emperor’s favor one night.

Alexander hates me. He once said my face disgusts him.

Deservedly so. That night wasn’t a pleasant memory for anyone.

He and Hazel Bennett—one the general’s legitimate daughter, the other the iron-blooded new sovereign—should have been a match made in heaven. Yet the general’s lowborn daughter got brazen and tried to ride his rise. On the night before their wedding, she poured him a pot of hot wine.

That lowborn daughter was me.

I won’t linger on that night, and neither would he.

He held the unacceptable lowborn girl in his arms and whispered "Ari" to her all night, sinking together in a ruinous pleasure, giving her his first time—and she ended up pregnant with his only child.

From a despised, unloved prince raised by a lowborn mother to wielding the throne—Alexander’s life in the first twenty years was a miracle of survival and comeback.

Who could have imagined that one misstep would be falling for a lowborn girl? This must be the biggest stain on his life, bar none.

But I remember. I remember everything.

That night, as dawn neared and he slept, satisfied, his skin shone like jade and a faint crease marred his brows.

I stared too long and couldn’t help kissing his brow, whispering, "Ari’s here… Sam, don’t be afraid…"

Just like when, back in the countryside, I held a dying boy and begged him not to die. He’d forced out a broken, peaceful smile: "Miss Ari… I want to see what you look like…"

I cried and kissed his lips. He looked into nothingness for a long time; his cool fingers grazed my face.

He said, "Ari… I never saw your face… I don’t want to die."

If he had died then, I swear I would have loved him forever.

But he didn’t.

Not only did he not die—he became the sovereign and repaid that favor to my legitimate sister by making her empress.

I should have chosen a dog instead of him.

That night of chaos, the next day I was dragged into a locked chamber and tormented for more than half a month. My wounds still haven’t fully healed.

New scars atop old—I’d been biting through the pain to get here. Even the slightest splash of wash water made me tremble.

02 "Your Highness, the water’s cooled—"

Maggie called softly. I steadied myself and asked in a lowered voice, "Is anyone here?"

Maggie looked pale, nodded, then hesitated.

She probably couldn’t understand how the once-timid Third Miss Bennett had turned step by bloody step into someone so ruthless and shamelessly loose.

How did I get here?

Let me think.

Was it when I heard Sam tenderly call Hazel "Ari"? Or when I watched my mother die in my arms? Or when, in the water cell, he squeezed my face and told me I made him sick?

Whatever—the end result is the same. No need to pick apart the path.

I glanced at her, smiling. "If you speak another word, I’ll have your tongue pulled out."

Maggie dropped the flowers and ran out crying. I sighed and sank into the bath, letting the warm water wrap around me until it felt like suffocation.

"Your Highness is pregnant—no need to make a scene."

A man leaned in the doorway, eyes bright and a lazy slouch about him, wearing steward’s clothing.

When I didn’t respond, he hurried over, hoisted me up and out of the water, and demanded sharply, "Do you want to die?"

I closed my eyes and smiled. "Little uncle, if I die, who will keep the DuPont line from ending?"

Cruel words—but Ethan DuPont only chuckled. "Little madam, you’ve got a big mouth for someone so small."

I opened my eyes and smiled at him, my wet limbs wrapping around his neck. A finger pressed gently to his lips; my breath grazed his ear. "So tell me—do you like this?"

Ethan looked at me with that soft, flirtatious gaze of his, peeled back my wet hair and sniffed, teasing, "Smells nice."

The thought made me queasy. I pulled away and swam backward.

He jumped in after me and dragged me back into his arms, fingers repeatedly stroking my flat belly. His eyes curved like a crescent on a tranquil lake—the charming boyishness of him.

Brothers tend to be a little alike.

I let my mind drift.

When I came back to myself, his lips had gone soft and tender against his dream. From where I sat, I could see his long lashes underwater and the proud line of his nose.

For a wild moment I thought—Ethan would make a good father.

"His Majesty has arrived!"

Chief Steward Robert’s shrill shout ripped a corner of my heart. My throat went dry and the world tilted dark for a beat.

Ethan lifted his head—the dreamlike look in his eyes fixed on me.

"Hide—now!"

Alexander entered, standing at a distance, not even bothering to give me a proper glance.

I propped my hand on the edge of the bath and asked, grin playing on my lips, "What’s wrong? Couldn’t have me executed—did His Majesty lose sleep over that?"

Even with his iron rule, he’d been on the throne less than a year; his base wasn’t secure. The Empress Dowager’s faction still lingered. General Henry Bennett watched like a hawk. Even if my father despised me, half the child in my belly would carry the Bennett name—General Henry couldn’t simply let it perish.

Just imagining them all hating me to the bone yet having to wait for me to bear the child and endure my sham power felt delicious!

Truly satisfying.

Alexander sneered and started walking straight over.

Ethan’s underwater grip on my ankle tightened. Panic flared and I shouted, "Stop!"

Alexander’s steps never faltered. He crouched slowly, a smile at his lips but his eyes cold as ice—impossible to meet.

"Claire Bennett," he said softly, "am I too lenient with you?"

Before I could even register defiance, he reached out and snapped my chin upward. I glared back, not yielding.

The DuPonts were handsome by nature—Alexander no exception.

In the moonlight his skin outshone snow, his phoenix eyes lifting with charm, but his cold, ruthless air overpowered it.

Back when I first found him lying faint in the wilds, I thought he was a delicate, pretty woman and took him home.

Same face. Different life.

Maybe that’s what being emperor changes.

He was so beautiful that for a second the water’s suffocation returned.

Dammit… Ethan!

The hand gripping my ankle was weakening.

I ground my teeth, hauled myself upright, shivering, forcing myself to meet Alexander’s gaze.

He looked startled for a beat; then his eyes went dark.

"Your Majesty," I said through clenched teeth and a smile, "the imperial physician says it’s safe."

"Shameless."

He frowned and spat the word with disgust, sweeping his sleeve and turning away.

I felt like a fish pulled from the water—gasping, a rock pressing on my chest.

I wanted to cry, but I swallowed the tears.

Ethan came up behind me and wrapped me tightly. His hold was firm and somehow comforting; I craved the suffocating closeness.

I trembled and breathed against his ear. His face stayed pure and pale, untroubled by anything else.

"Claire, if you want to cry, then cry."

His voice was low and rough.

I didn’t. Ethan, unusually, didn’t say more; I didn’t notice when he quietly slipped away.

The next day my head ached fiercely. Maggie was extra careful as she braided my hair. "Your Highness, I’ve looked into it. Last night Lady Eleanor had severe abdominal pain and, between the lines, accused us—said she was poisoned by the red eggs sent from our palace. She made a scene and it woke His Majesty."

I hummed with my eyes closed. "What did His Majesty say?"

"He came by our palace and ignored Lady Eleanor kneeling outside for justice. She didn’t get confirmation and dared not rise—she knelt at our gate all night."

"Oh. Of course he’d do something like that."

He wouldn’t care about the life or death of any consort—he only needed an excuse to punish me. It was tedious beyond words.

I changed into plain clothes and went to the late Empress Hazel’s former residence. Chief Steward Robert saw me and his surprise was written all over his face. "Your Highness—why are you here?"

I couldn’t tell if he meant that a pregnant woman shouldn’t be in places like this, or that I—having survived my eldest sister’s death—was brazen enough to show up in front of her spirit tablet. Regardless, the weary, bitter smile on my face didn’t slip even a bit. "I’ve heard the Empress Dowager is grief-stricken and bedridden over my sister’s passing. Even for her sake, I could not refuse this visit."

I was lying. The Empress Dowager was Ethan DuPont’s mother. With Hazel gone and the Bennetts angry at Alexander DuPont, she was probably gloating enough to live for years.

I studied Chief Steward Robert’s face without showing it.

He sighed thoughtfully. "Then please follow me, Your Highness."

I smiled and nodded, signaling Maggie to wait by the door, lifted my skirt, and followed Robert into the inner hall.

Alexander always doted on his sister. Whatever she had, no one else did. I had seen it before. I only glanced briefly; my eyes settled on the spirit tablet.

"Empress Hazel," I murmured. "Such a lovely name."

How provincial. Was Alexander really supposed to be unparalleled in talent?

That was it?

"Your Highness, allow me to dust the incense for you," Robert said cautiously.

I hummed, my eyes flicking to Maggie outside for an instant.

I took the incense with both hands, placed it reverently, and knelt on the mat in quiet contemplation.

It wasn’t long before one of Robert’s eunuchs slipped in with a private message. I opened my eyes slowly; Robert’s face had turned troubled. "Your Highness, I—"

"Chief Steward, if there’s something, go on with it," I said, forcing a smile. My folded hands brushed my belly without thinking. "I’ll be gone after half an incense."

Robert’s cautious gaze scanned my belly, nodded, and withdrew quietly.

Silence filled the room, only the faint curl of incense smoke lingering. I rose slowly, stretched my stiff limbs, and said, "Sister—it’s me."

I leaned down to face her spirit tablet, like when I pressed my cheek to hers as she died—drinking in her last gasps, her unwillingness, her rage. I had reveled in my victory.

"Good sister, I finally—won once against you."

I smiled.

She had betrayed me, humiliated me, taken my place. How could I not see her off properly?

"Sister is dead. Wonderful."

My eyes curved. "Sister was fortunate—she died at the moment Alexander loved you most, died as an Empress. How splendid…"

If there is a next life, you’d better pray you never cross me again, or I won’t let you die so gloriously.

I was about to step toward the ceremonial casket when footsteps sounded outside.

I paused, then, with practiced ease, slipped beneath the offering table and hid—just as I used to dodge my stepmother’s beatings at the Bennett House.

The difference now was I was calm, unflustered.

Black lacquered shoes trimmed in gold.

I clenched the tablecloth. I knew Alexander wouldn’t speak to a dead woman, yet my gut warned me a storm was coming.

"Your Majesty, thank you for allowing this old woman to come see the Empress one last time… It’s such a pity about the Empress…" a choked, weak female voice said.

My heart pounded.

I held my breath and bit my lip so hard the sounds in my throat stayed down.

Step‑mother—Claire Bennett—it’s a shame you can’t witness her desolation.

Alexander was silent for a long time before answering lightly, "Hazel was my first wife. I will give her a splendid funeral befitting her honor."

My stepmother hesitated, then asked softly, "I have a presumptuous request… May I see Consort Lynn?"

"The Imperial Medical Office said Claire’s fetal position is unstable. She needs rest. Let her recover; it’s not too late to visit then."

Alexander had that inscrutable tone he used when words had layers.

When had the imperial physicians ever said my fetal position was unstable?

After they left and the hall quieted, I still couldn’t shake the sensation.

Could it be Alexander had slighted the Empress Dowager for my sake?

Or was he protecting the child in my belly?

He actually cares for this child?

Now that’s interesting.

"Mother—"

I followed them out, feigning a casual encounter in the corridor. I looked wan and gentle. "Mother, you finally managed to enter the palace—why not come see your daughter?"

Claire looked green with fury. Everyone in the palace knew Hazel’s death couldn’t be separated from me. She could not imagine that I’d have the audacity to stride in like this.

I took her hand with apparent concern and pressed my smile to my belly. "You needn’t worry. You’re about to be a grandmother. Aren’t you happy?"

Your daughter is dead; I am pregnant. Two blessings at once.

Alexander’s brows hadn’t relaxed since I arrived. When Claire coldly snatched her hand back, his brows drew tighter. "I have matters to attend to. Chief Steward—"

Robert bowed instantly and glanced at me. I winked.

"See Mrs. Bennett out."

Alexander didn’t want to stay another moment. He turned to leave.

I held Claire’s hand affectionately, looked into her eyes, and leaned to whisper in her ear, "Mother, don’t be too grief‑stricken. After all… you will join her soon enough."

Claire stared at me in disbelief, eyes watering. She raised her hand to slap me. I tilted back, screamed theatrically, and clutched my belly as I rolled down the white jade steps.

I crashed into the railing when I landed; the ache shot through my bones. I drew a deep breath and still glanced at her panicked face.

It was ridiculous. I wanted to laugh, but tears slipped from the corners of my eyes.

Alexander moved faster than anyone. He vaulted the railing and scooped me into his arms, scolding, "What are you all standing there for? Seize this poisonous woman!"

I couldn’t help it—I laughed.

Ignoring everything else, Alexander and I were unmatched in this performance.

Sensing my trembling smile, his body stiffened.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and began to cry. "Your Majesty… my belly hurts…"

The servants panicked; Alexander carried me straight toward the Imperial Medical Office.

Once away from prying eyes, I dropped the tears and teased lightly, "Alexander… you wanted me dead, didn’t you? Well, you won’t have your wish."

He looked down at me with a darkness I hadn’t expected. Calm and composed usually, he seemed unexpectedly angry.

His hand stroked my face and rubbed the tears away roughly. Through his teeth he warned, "Who told you that the wine was poisoned? Claire Bennett, don’t get too clever."

A coldness ran through me like ice water poured over my head.

The physicians said only that I’d lost the fetal balance and must rest in bed. I closed my eyes and listened. Of course nothing would happen; my child wasn’t fragile.

If one fall could lose it, then maybe it shouldn’t be born into a palace full of thorns—spent as a footstool, schemed against all its life.

Lying still, I felt someone watching me in the quiet inner chamber for a long time.

"Go," I turned over. My voice was hoarse. "I don’t want to see you."

I had never imagined Alexander would be just as cold toward his aide Ari. He was severing the last thread of hope I had.

Pathetic—I had actually hoped he’d love my eldest sister with deep devotion. At least then Sam really loved Ari—he loved, but loved the wrong person. Love still existed.

Alexander had used me to get rid of my sister. What would he do next?

"Rest well," his voice carried a weary chill. "Always scheming—can the child born of that be normal?"

I sat up with a cold laugh. "You expect a normal child? Alexander, do you deserve that?"

His dark eyes pinned me. His lips trembled, but he said nothing and left.

That night Alexander’s loyal guard Gavin was supposed to be on duty, but Ethan risked coming anyway.

I pretended to nap on the couch while Ethan stood at my bedside, stubbornly watching me.

I sighed and reached to tightly grasp his fingers.

Ethan’s hand was icy. I couldn’t help a small hiss. He pulled his hand away. "I know you hate her, but there are a thousand ways to get revenge. Why choose the one that hurts you the most?"

His eyes were red and his brows knitted. I softened.

"Ethan…"

I stroked the knotted bone of his hand again and again. "You like me, don’t you?"

He inhaled, turned his head, and stayed silent.

"I like you too," he finally said, "but remember—my vengeance is mine alone."

He jerked his head back and looked at me with a frown.

I smiled. "You want to kill her for me?"

No. I wanted them alive. Only alive could they taste every bit of suffering my mother and I had endured. I wanted to see them tear each other apart and die miserable.

Ethan smiled with bitterness; his eyes remained flat. "Wise, Your Highness."

I sighed. No one could understand me except him. He and I were the same kind of people—ruined vessels of revenge, fallen souls. From this moment, I would spare him no mercy.

"The month is still early. You can’t tell the fetus’ gender yet," the physician said, removing the cloth from my head and bowing. "It is my incompetence."

I drew my hand back slowly and said in a low voice, "Time hasn’t come yet. Dr. Samuel Hayes, there’s no need to belittle yourself."

This physician, Dr. Samuel Hayes, was someone my father General Henry Bennett had strongly recommended. Though Henry wasn’t a saint, when it came to this child, he and I were on the same side.

A few days ago, Margaret Bennett had just been brought back home by General Henry Bennett. Alexander DuPont, on the pretext that the General had been a poor husband and harmed the imperial heir, seized Henry’s Eastern Command Token—cutting his military authority in half. Henry, always careful enough to leave no fault to find, was utterly broken.

Watching them tear each other apart was satisfying in a way, but the military authority shifting upward and the center of power consolidating was not good for me. It meant bringing down Alexander would take even more effort, and I was already stretched thin.

I couldn’t help scolding myself again. How foolish I’d been—sacrificing my child to bait a wolf, only to let Alexander reap the benefit.

Back when Alexander lay half-dead, I’d brought him to the Bennett House and begged my father to treat him. It was Dr. Samuel Hayes who took his pulse then. No wonder Alexander is so fond of him—and now Henry had bought him. The two of them were connected by a small kindness from long ago.

“Do you know Chief Steward Robert?” I asked, looking directly into his eyes.

Something was moving slowly across my belly as I was dozing in the afternoon.

When I startled awake, Alexander’s face was above me. He withdrew his hand like nothing had happened, voice low: “Awake?”

I glared at him, annoyed. “You nearly scared me to death.”

He smiled wryly. “Claire Bennett, with your nerve, you still hope to murder a king?”

My throat tightened. I tried to sort out when I’d ever let that murderous intent show, then forced a calm laugh. “The Emperor is jesting. If I win, I rise alone; if I lose, the whole House Bennett goes down with me. Isn’t that a safe bet? No risk, all reward.”

He watched me quietly for a long moment, then arched a brow. “Very bold. I’ll be waiting for you.”

When Alexander left, my clothes were soaked through. Maggie helped me change—part amused, part exasperated. “Your Highness, you’re with child. Why take such risks?”

I gave her a look. For some reason, Maggie had always seemed unafraid of Alexander.

Rain pattered outside.

I remembered the night my mother had been poisoned by that wretch Margaret Bennett—lightning, thunder, the same rain. I cradled my dying mother, helpless and screaming, while Maggie gripped my hand and urged, “Miss, go beg His Majesty. Maybe he’ll spare us because you’re to be his sister-in-law…ask him to send help.”

I’d been foolish enough to hope he would. I was Ari—if not for saving his life, if not for him… perhaps I would still be the carefree Claire Bennett. I thought if I could just tell him—my mother’s life was being used to silence me—why not tell him the truth: I was the one who saved him. I was Ari.

I ran out into the storm. I knelt in front of the main gate for two hours straight until Chief Steward Robert finally came. He held a garment in his hands; a little steward boy shielded him with an umbrella. The embroidered flying-fish pattern on the robe glittered—clearly expensive silk.

And I knelt there in mud, soaked and humiliated.

At that moment I felt like the most pathetic daughter of a general alive. Even a favored eunuch towered over me.

I wiped my face and called out, “Sir, please—”

He sighed, pity in his eyes. “Miss Claire, what are you doing?”

The instant I opened my mouth, the tears came—hot and unstoppable. Luckily the rain blurred them.

“I want to see—”

“Miss Claire—” He cut me off. I still remember his look: pity, regret, sorrow. “Please don’t speak. Go back. I must deliver the wedding robe to Miss Hazel.”

I froze until his back disappeared into the night.

The robe he carried—cloud-patterned embroidery, the very style my legitimate sister Hazel loved.

Suddenly everything made sense.

Everything.

I knew that night Prince Ethan would come for me—but with child I couldn’t stay awake, so when he arrived I was groggy and half-asleep, and his barrage of accusations made me laugh through tears.

“I heard Gavin said you recruited Chief Steward Robert and had him act as your spy?” Ethan frowned. “What were you thinking? Aren’t you afraid he might turn on you?”

I leaned into him lazily. “Everyone has a weakness. Even eunuchs are human.”

“How did you manage it?” Ethan pinched my cheek. “Tell me.”

“It wasn’t much… I slept with him once.”

Ethan pressed my shoulder hard, blush burning in his handsome eyes. He stared at me, then bent down and nibbled my face like he hated me for it. “You didn’t spare a eunuch?”

His cool, soft lips brushed my skin and somehow it made me shiver.

Who could resist such a beautiful boy?

I looked up at his moonlit face. “Actually… I miss you a little.”

His eyes softened like fog over a ravine, unreadable. “Claire—”

“Shh.” I put a fingertip to his lips. “Do you hear anything?”

He frowned, listened, then shook his head: “No.”

Relieved, I smiled and changed the subject. “Do you regret it, Ethan?”

“No.” He was blunt.

“Really?” I tilted my head. “I heard you risked your life to save Alexander and sent him off to Rivermark. If you hadn’t, maybe I’d still be happy in Rivermark acting like a simple girl.”

“No ifs.” He said softly. “If there were an if, I’d only hope I’d met you sooner.”

“You flatterer.” I cut it off.

He sighed.

05.

“Looks like Alexander’s really in love with my sister—hasn’t set foot in the harem in days.” Maggie told me the intelligence Robert had passed along as I pretended to nap, elbow propping my head.

“You needn’t be sad, Your Highness. His Majesty surely still thinks of you,” Maggie chirped.

I shot her a look. She scratched her head, hurried to add, “Besides, our palace’s imperial heir is unique.”

I rolled my eyes. “What kind of report is this? Robert wrote down which dishes Alexander eats and how often he used the privy. Who cares about all that?”

Maggie giggled, eyes crescent moons.

“We have trouble!” a little court maid burst in, tripping and collapsing. She lifted her face in terror. “Lady Lynn Moore… she came into the palace—”

“So what if she came?” Ethan’s queen was Lynn Moore, and she and Hazel were close childhood friends. They’d tormented me and my mother plenty in the past; I’d almost forgotten her, and now she walked right into my hands.

“Lady Lynn came to accuse you of an affair with the Prince. She brought witnesses—everything is ready!”

“What?” I sprang up.

“The Emperor is furious. The edict to depose you is already on its way to Westcourt Palace!”

“How could this happen? This is a mess—” Maggie wailed. “Why didn’t he question you? How can he believe her?”

“Maggie,” I closed my eyes, vertigo hitting me, “help me to the study. I must see him.”

“His Majesty—” I grabbed his sleeve so hard the black-and-gold dragon embroidery crumpled. “Lady Lynn is close to the late Empress. The late Empress and I were never on good terms—His Majesty must know this. He cannot believe her. It’s slander.”

Alexander barely twitched a brow and didn’t pull away. Strange—he had issued my deposition, and yet he’d promptly agreed to see me. I couldn’t understand him.

He slowly readjusted my hair, fingertips cool as they brushed my lips. “Look at you, my An’er… so flustered your hair is a mess.”

I forced myself to continue. “I never knew Gavin. Why would he risk helping me? His death might not have been suicide—it could have been foul play. Your Majesty, you are wise; don’t judge rashly and let me suffer in innocence.”

I bowed deeply. “Your Majesty, the Prince and I are innocent under Heaven and earth. If there is a single lie, I shall die a terrible death.”

Maggie gasped and fell to her knees, choking on the words, “Your Highness—”

A vow was nothing. If Alexander would die before me, I didn’t care how. I only wanted him dead before me.

“Do you know?” Alexander said, standing over me, voice flat. “Two cups of poisoned wine were prepared—one sent to Westcourt Palace, one to the Prince’s. I gave him a choice. That’s why you stand here unharmed.”

My fingers tightened until the armor bit into my palm, blood hot and raw. “Your Majesty… the Prince saved a life in battle. How could you be so cruel?”

He smiled with contempt. “If I were truly cruel, I would have let you both be lovers on the run.” He locked his gaze on mine, and his voice dropped into a poisonous whisper, a smile curling at the edge of his mouth. “But I don’t want that. I want you to be separated forever—never to meet again.”

I could no longer contain it. I lurched up and glared at him. “Where’s the evidence? The witnesses are dead. And the physical proof—where?”

Alexander watched me, eyes storm-dark, cliffs of fury hidden behind an even face.

“Can’t find it, can you?” I laughed, fingers pointed at him, deranged. “Alexander DuPont! Since when did you care whether I murdered Hazel, if she truly fell, or whether I really had an affair? You only want the result. You want them dead! For all your talk of empire, you only stab with other hands. You’re a coward—using others to kill for you! You hide behind names, living off their blood like a filthy parasite.”

I stepped closer until he had nowhere to look but me. “Kill me, Alexander. If you have the guts, kill me now.”

I pulled a golden hairpin from my hair and shoved it into his hand, guiding his fingers to press it to my throat. “Didn’t you demand I accompany Hazel to death? Do it. I command you.”

He yanked his hand away so hard I stumbled and fell.

He looked down on me—murder glinting in his eyes for a second, then it faded into chill. I was disgraced in the Palace of Concubines, dragged into the Cold Palace, stripped of rank and made a commoner.

Alexander loathed me—everyone knew it. They had expected this day, but nobody knew it would come so fast. I hadn’t even had time to give birth, and he had already shoved me into the Cold Palace without delay.

Being sent to the cold palace strangely steadied me. If Alexander DuPont hadn’t killed me, then I wasn’t dead—and if I wasn’t dead, I still had a chance to turn things around.

Avoiding those spies was a godsend.

The cold palace wasn’t a place you survived easily.

All sorts of people—Lady Eleanor, Consort Xu—rushed over to “visit” me.

I’d seen my share of people who shifted with the wind, flattering the high and trampling the low. But if anyone deserved the crown for shamelessness, put them together and they wouldn’t be fit to tie Alexander’s shoes.

I calmly ate the spoiled food they brought; their looks of horror sent them scattering, whispering that I’d gone mad from being demoted to commoner.

I spat the food out and lifted my head. Someone stood on a distant balcony, watching.

Boring.

On the day I went into premature labor, Alexander wasn’t even in the palace—he’d gone out to inspect flood damage.

The clothes from the inner service had been laced with labor-inducing incense. They meant to take my life while Alexander was away, but in a twisted way they’d helped me.

“Listen, if anyone comes, you just scream and shout right here! I’ll nail the doors and windows shut, understand?”

I gripped the hand of the palace maid until pain made me tremble. “No matter what happens, don’t stop!”

That maid had been planted by General Henry Bennett—she had some skill. She nodded fiercely when she heard me. “Your handmaid will not fail you, Miss.”

Miss… the old title brought back a rush of memories. There wasn’t time for sentiment. I slipped into the eunuch’s clothes we’d prepared and crept out of the cold palace.

“What day is it that the guards are so lax?” someone muttered.

The halls were deathly quiet. The guards’ blank eyes skimmed over my slightly stooped figure as if afraid to linger, turning away quickly.

I convinced myself the Empress Dowager Margaret’s protection had a hand in it. My pain grew sharper; I had no energy to think. I made it back to Westcourt Palace.

Maggie whispered, “Chief Steward Robert fed those women a measured dose of the labor medicine like you said. A little at a time—it’s fine.”

I listened as faint cries and screams rose from below. Bit by bit, I relaxed—and then the pain took over. Blood trickled down my legs. I gnashed my teeth, slid into a side chamber, and lay on a small couch with my eyes closed.

My mother’s warning echoed: women giving birth step a foot into death.

I gripped the blanket until my whole body shook.

My mind blurred. When my mouth tasted of blood, I mouthed a prayer: Mother, bless your daughter to give birth safely and to take down her enemies.

Then I dreamt a very long dream.

I dreamt of Ethan DuPont.

It was the night we first met. He was a young man with delicate features and bright eyes, smiling like the peach-blossom wine I’d brewed—cold and sweet at once.

He tilted his head and looked at me with a meaning smile. “So you’re the third Miss of the Henry Bennett household.”

Rude, odd—at the time I didn’t know him. I shot him a cold look and kept burning my funeral papers.

He sidled behind me to shield me from the wind. In the glow of the dying embers his profile was clean and clear.

For some reason I asked, “Hey, do you have a brother named Alexander?”

He looked surprised and smilingly replied, “Yes. Was your childhood name… Yao Li?”

Ah, regret later. I should have asked instead, “Hey, why didn’t you come sooner?”

Why didn’t you come sooner, Ethan?

“Your Grace—”

Someone grabbed my chin, poured warm water into my mouth. “Your Grace, hold on! The Emperor will be back soon!”

The Emperor.

The Stand-In Who Stole His Power

Scenes flickered: Alexander in the countryside, weak but smiling at me; Alexander lying in the Bennett residence with eyes closed, barely breathing; Alexander recovered and laughed with my legitimate sister; Alexander kneeling at the palace gate sending wedding garments while my mother died before my eyes; Alexander in the cold water prison torturing and humiliating me; “Miss… the wind’s picking up—”

Beneath the peach tree, Alexander turned his head and smiled faintly…
…I hadn’t killed Alexander yet.

Alexander!

I could not die. I would not die.

“Alexander—”

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I screamed. Pain tore me apart, and a weak wail finally came out.

I gasped for air and tears slid down my face.

Alexander, you didn’t finish me… you’re finished.

I bit down as the labor pain dropped like a boulder and my body felt sodden. Before dawn, my baby was born.

A daughter.

Maybe because of the medicine, she was feeble—her cries sounded like a kitten’s.

Maggie came out of the inner room dripping with sweat, holding the baby—pink, clean, sleeping soundly.

“Two hours early,” she whispered. “Only this one infant.”

Close call.

I don’t know what part of me reached for that child—my true daughter—and I murmured, “Send her away.”

Maggie stared in shock. “How can you say that?”

“Why not?”

I said firmly, “If she stays, Alexander will never spare her.”

Time was running out. Alexander wouldn’t let me be pregnant again. And a daughter alone meant I would lose the one remaining pillar of the Bennett household and be trapped here in the palace for good.

Not just revenge—survival would be impossible.

“You could pretend they’re twins and keep the little princess,” Maggie pleaded, dropping to her knees. “Please rethink this!”

“Do you think Alexander is stupid?” I frowned. Dawn was coming and Maggie dared to defy me now. I breathed hard and forced myself upright. “Give the child to me!”

She crawled to me clutching the baby, crying, “Your Grace… please don’t—”

I threw back the blanket and pointed to the smoke outside. “Do you see that?”

I clamped her jaw. “That was the cold palace. We just escaped from there. Do you know who was burned alive? The maid who called me ‘Miss’ earlier—she entered with you, only hours ago. Do you remember her face? Do you hear her screams in your ears? Tell me—do you want me dead too?”

I must have looked deranged. Maggie cowered, shaking her head so hard.

“Be obedient.” I crouched to meet her eyes. My voice trembled with pain but I softened it. “Maggie… I’m doing this for the little princess. With me as her mother, she won’t survive in the harem.”

Her eyes reddened. “No, you and the princess will live. You’ll both live—”

“Alexander will never spare me.” I laughed harshly. “You’re naive. Haven’t you seen what he’s capable of?”

“Your Grace… the Emperor… Alexander cares about you!” Maggie cried with her eyes shut. “He knows you’re the one who saved him. He knows everything!”

Silence stretched in Westcourt Hall as I stared at the smoke and the rising sun. “How do you know that?” I asked.

After more hesitant confessions, the whole thing felt absurd. “You mean…all of this is something you created?”

I was the suffering heroine in a torment novel, and she—this woman—was the author. While I sobbed and clawed for survival she delighted in “a little cruelty to taste,” and preached “the redemption arc” to force us toward a big reconciliation.

No wonder she never feared Alexander and always sided with him. In her view, as long as he hadn’t broken me completely, there was a chance for reunion.

But she forgot I’m human. I have dignity.

“The creator is trapped in the world she created,” I repeated mockingly. “You want everyone to live happily ever after and to go home. I get it. But I’m the one in control now. How does it feel to have your fate decided by someone else?”

Maggie didn’t raise her head. She whispered, “You’ll have a very, very good ending if you stop now… or if you pretend the princess and that child are twins, like I wrote…”

“Why should I follow your ending?” I arched a brow and let a reckless smile cross my face. “You can wave your magic pen all you want, but have you learned what’s beyond your reach?”

Maggie glared at me in terror and ducked her head. “Back when Fifth Madam was poisoned, if I hadn’t nudged the plot and sent you to find Alexander, Fifth Madam wouldn’t have died and you wouldn’t have found out he was faking illness.”

“Faking illness… ha—” I snorted, but my chest ached. “I knew he played dumb, but that he could fake being ill too—impressive.”

How foolish I’d been, crying on the pillow in the Bennett residence while he pretended to be remorseful and cooing with my sister.

My mother patted my head and said, “Let’s go back to Rivermark. Being a general’s illegitimate daughter is no life.”

But Hazel Bennett and Margaret Bennett decided the marriage was certain and then poisoned us. This life—there was no going back to Rivermark for me.

“Not entirely pretending—” Maggie began.

“Don’t say another word!” I cut her off loudly. “I will not keep that child. Give her to me!”

A commotion at the door—Alexander had rushed back overnight. I could hear his low, angry voice outside.

Maggie babbled something. I watched blankly as she seized the moment, scooped the child, and bolted for the door.

In one instant, scissors were at the back of her neck.

Sorry, Maggie. You tried to peek at fate and make me follow your ridiculous script. I couldn’t let you live and be a threat.

This time, I would seize destiny and make it crawl beneath my feet.

Her hand touched the door. She slumped against the dawn, tears streaking her face as she looked back at me. The morning light flashed across my eyes, then everything went irrevocably dark.

Maggie’s blood was warm, viscous, impossible to wash off.

I smeared it on the child’s face. The sleeping infant woke and howled—what a strong little royal.

I lifted her slowly and murmured, “Good child, don’t cry. A little blood won’t scare you… the realm of Daning still needs you.”

Someone burst in and stared at me, frozen.

I looked up. Pale gold morning light spilled in; his gaze was shadowed, terrifyingly bright.

"Your Majesty," I said, raising an eyebrow as I slowly lifted the child, smiling, "look—our baby is crying…"

Alexander's features tightened; he glanced down at the child, his lips moving as he murmured, "Are you alright?"

I blinked. "How could I not be?"

He stepped closer and covered my hand with his. His touch was cool; small beads of cold sweat dotted his palm.

"As long as you're fine."

He said it simply.

"Look, the little prince smiles when he sees his father," I said, forcing the corner of my mouth up. "He… has a special bond with you."

The child did seem bound to Alexander. The very day he was born, the floods that had been ravaging Rivermark receded. People whispered that the little prince was a reincarnated lucky star, fate-sent to bless Danning.

I knew whose doing it truly was, of course. I still wrote a letter to General Henry Bennett, giving him a sharp warning—don't go too far.

With Ethan's fate unknown and me trapped deep in the palace, every step required caution; one misstep and I would plummet into an abyss. It was exhausting.

Alexander's behavior remained ambiguous. From morning until night he stayed by my side; even his official work he insisted on doing in my chamber.

Yet he refused to hold the little prince. He had a natural recoil from the child—blood ties are different from the bond with a true-born child.

My own daughter, my flesh and blood, had already been sent away by Chief Steward Robert. I might never see her again.

I tightened my grip on the little prince's wrist, my face going dark.

I hadn't expected to run into this so soon.

That night Alexander frowned and brooded for a long while. Before leaving, he tucked my blankets in and, almost like soothing a child, stroked my face. "I have matters to attend to. You sleep."

I stayed silent, uneasy.

His retreating figure was proud and lonely. Impulsively I called after him. "Alexander."

He didn't flinch at the name. He turned back, a little stiff, and his deep, mist-dark eyes flickered.

I felt awkward and threw out a casual question. "Will you come back?"

He seemed to relax all at once and replied softly, "I will."

I didn't believe him. I quietly stood at the doorway watching for a long time.

Chief Steward Robert had told me the palace was riddled with secret passages—some even the emperor himself might not know. I'd once hidden pregnant women in a hidden chamber; those people had been sent out now, but I couldn't be sure every trace was gone.

I touched the hidden-room door and looked back toward the seat he'd taken that day.

A scrap of paper brushed; I remembered the pale, smooth tips of his fingers tracing across it.

My heart jolted. Alexander had been acting oddly tonight; his eyes unsettled me.

Following the memory of the layout, I pressed my hand along the wall and moved forward. Cold drafts brushed against me; I wrapped my robe tighter and crept to the spot I remembered.

"Ah—"

A woman's shriek, raw and piercing, cut through the air from just beyond the wall. I froze and steadied myself against the plaster, took a deep breath, and peered out.

A woman, tortured beyond recognition, had her head held high in defiance while palace servants cowered on the ground trembling.

Alexander sat erect and calm, holding something in his arms. He raised an eyebrow and listened to the woman's curses with casual patience.

"Alexander! You deserve to die!"

Blood boiled and then froze in my veins. That voice had been seared into me—it could never fade.

My elder sister. Alexander's empress—Hazel Bennett.

"Die!" Hazel screamed, the sound echoing through the cavernous hidden chamber, chilling to the bone.

Alexander's lips moved slowly. "The one who dies will be you."

A faint infant cry suddenly rose, and something inside me snapped. I threw myself forward without thinking.

"Ah."

Alexander's eyes, which had been fixed on the baby, lifted dangerously and then stilled.

He saw me and his face smoothed into a smile. "Caught."

"Give me the child." I forced myself to sound controlled. "What are you trying to do?"

"What am I trying to do?" Alexander repeated my words, a brilliant smile curling his lips. "I've been trying to get revenge for us."

Us?

"You're insane."

I spat out the words, teeth clenched. "Give me the child. Now."

Alexander handed my daughter to Chief Steward Robert with a tenderness that could have been mistaken for ordinary first-time fatherly care.

Chief Steward Robert bowed and couldn't even meet my eyes.

He—he had promised to send the little princess out of the palace. This traitor.

Robert turned and walked deeper into the chamber.

Anger surged with nowhere to go. I lunged to snatch the child back.

Alexander casually caught my wrist and spun me around toward the woman nailed to a torture frame.

She was no longer a person. Even if my old hatred had once wanted her shredded to pieces, I could never have imagined such a cruel method.

She'd been left suspended by a single breath, six months on end.

Her stare was a blade. I couldn't wrench free from Alexander's grip; he held me to him and, as if to taunt, turned me to face Hazel.

He bent to breath my neck, his voice soft and petulant. "I didn't plan on letting her live. But you'll like the gift I've brought you, won't you?"

"If this is revenge," I said coldly, "I'd rather you die before me."

He smiled without losing his composure, indulgent. "You kill her first. The rest we'll talk about, piece by piece, yes?"

"Hazel, your bastard child's time is up." Hazel, delirious with rage, began to laugh wildly, blood flecking her tears. "Your child with Ethan will die—both of them!"

Before I could respond, her face suddenly surged into mine. Even in that final glare, I could see my own astonished reflection.

Alexander covered my eyes with one hand. "This time, she really is dead. Hanging on her took the imperial physicians some doing. How does it feel? Satisfied?"

I clenched myself against the shaking in my limbs and forced calm. "Alexander, what do you want?"

At that instant the man in front of me was utterly foreign, terrifying—perhaps I'd never really seen him clearly from the start.

"I truly love you."

He let go like an arrow released; a bloody arrow clattered to the floor.

He toyed with the corner of my lip and dropped a light kiss. "Claire, I truly love you."

"Do you?" I sneered. "Don't you love Ari?"

"I never loved any Ari." His hand settled on my shoulder, eyes shifting. "Do you understand?"

His grip tightened; pain flared in my shoulder. He forced me to meet his gaze—cold as a deep pool.

"What are you going to do?"

A terrible unease surged through me.

"Do it." He hugged me suddenly, his breath warm near my ear. "I can spare Ethan's life, but the child—your child with Ethan—must not live."

I realized then the "do it" wasn't meant for me. Panic seized me; I wrenched and struggled. "No! Don't—"

The baby's wail sharpened, unbearable. I broke into hysterical sobs. "No! Don't do this! Alexander, she's only a child! Don't—"

He bent and kissed my tears, then smiled cruelly. "I didn't mean for you to see… Claire, but you're far too clever."

"You knew from the start. You were acting with me. Why?" I screamed, teeth sinking into his forearm, using every ounce of strength I had.

"To atone." He ran a tender hand through my hair, whispering, "I thought I could restrain myself, Claire. I thought I could. I overestimated myself."

"She drove me mad with jealousy. How I wanted to hold her and hear her call me father. But do you know? Your and Ethan's child cries so much—she looks nothing like you. All I can see on her face is Ethan. I held on until today. Didn't you say we would go to hell together? Claire, I promised. If we go to hell, we'll start anew there."

"Ah—"

I clamped my hands over my head. The baby's cries seemed to faint like a pinprick. I pressed my palms over my ears until I couldn't breathe. "Die, Alexander! Die! Die—"

"I will die." His gaze turned dark. He wrenched my hand away and—he actually—he forced me to watch my child die.

"I will die, and you won't escape," he murmured in a voice like a demon from the underworld.

"Don't—try—to—escape."

Don't you dare try to run.

Neither will you.

Year five of Emperor Tianqi, tenth month. The new empress recovered; the emperor and empress grew closer.

"Mom… Mom, look at my flower—"

A chubby little bundle barreled into the room and flopped by my bed, grinning. "Look—"

"Young master, from now on you should call me Empress Mother." My lady-in-waiting smiled and steadied the boy, advising gently.

"I know, Aunt Maggie," the boy answered.

The name made me pause; a faint smile stalled on my lips as vague memories flickered through my mind.

"Why do you insist on going your own way? You know how this ends! You knew!" Someone was shouting. A voice, tearing my heart apart.

It was Maggie's voice.

I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead; it hurt slightly.

"Mother, today I heard something strange," the boy said, looking up at me with eyes like dark grapes—pure and bright.

I smoothed his hair. "What did you hear?"

"The teacher said I have another uncle—the Crown Prince. They say he's been in Qiongzhou all these years. I've never met him." He lifted his face innocently. "Why didn't you and Father ever mention him?"

The room's mood froze. I noticed a young maid trembling.

I answered, perplexed, "Really? This Crown Prince… I don't remember hearing about him either."

That night, as we prepared for bed, I turned the question to Alexander.

His eyes flickered. "Unimportant. No need to mention him."

I hummed and let it go. In recent years the emperor had been kinder to me but ruthless to others. He'd purged and exiled many families; his mind was sharp. Even my mother's family—once favored—had been steadily sidelined. Maybe I asked too many questions.

Perhaps it was my imagination, but that night he held my hand tighter than usual—so tight it ached.

The next morning during the court session, I woke as usual to take my medicine, but after one sip I nearly threw up.

"What is it?"

Alexander frowned and gently patted my back.

"Why does it taste so much more bitter than before?"

I furrowed my brow and gave him a doleful look. "I'm better now. I don't need to take the medicine anymore."

He immediately rejected me coldly. "No."

"Dr. Samuel Hayes said if I keep taking the medicine I'll never get pregnant."

I curled my arm around his waist and whispered, "Jin is already growing up…doesn't His Majesty want another little princess?"

Alexander stiffened for a beat. When he lowered his eyes, a smile softened them. "Then you have to drink the medicine obediently first."

Fine. I sulked and downed the potion in one gulp.

He bent and kissed the corner of my mouth, tender and aching. "Soon. Very soon."

Soon what?

His kiss made me nearly lose my balance; I had no head to listen to words.

Most of the concubines and ladies had been locked away in the cold palace — the harem was sparse and empty.

Maggie laughed when I complained. "Isn't it wonderful being the emperor's only beloved?"

It was wonderful, of course, but it was a pity: all that dazzling favor and my belly was stubbornly still.

At court that morning we heard that His Majesty had inexplicably dismissed Lord DuPont's physician.

Strange.

But the emperor ruled by his will alone, and with absolute power there's little room for others to intervene. Whether that was good or bad, who could say.

Around midnight I pressed against his sweating back and bit my lip, begging him to finish quickly.

Alexander, uncharacteristically, showed no mercy. He grew darker in temperament, rougher.

Afterward, when I pretended to be angry and ignored him, he became playful, rubbing his smooth face against my neck like a spoiled child.

I giggled from ticklishness, then remembered something, dressed, and ran out to the courtyard to dig up my jar of peach wine.

He arched an eyebrow and teased me from the doorway. "Empress or not, your drunkard habit hasn't changed."

I blushed thinking of the old days in Rivermark when I'd been plastered and had him, a sick man, stumble around to cover me with a blanket. Some shame warmed me.

"You're not going to drink?"

I cradled the jar and dusted it off like a treasure. "Then it's mine alone."

"I remember the peach wine of past years wasn't this sweet."

After a few cups, color stained Alexander's cheeks and the corners of his eyes a brilliant red. He looked at me, burning and lovely.

I assumed a solemn tone. "Maybe it's because the drinker's heart is sweet."

That made the tips of his ears even redder. He stifled his teasing, as if careful not to break the hush, and murmured, "You're right."

I smiled until my eyes curved.

He folded me into his arms and murmured, "Maybe it's time."

After that he stopped forcing me to take medicine. More and more he kept me by his side. No matter how busy, he found moments at night to whisper to my empty belly.

"Come quickly."

"Hopefully it looks like its mother."

Little childish pleasantries.

Seasons passed and his longing for a child only deepened.

I could feel it — his desire far outstripped any hope he’d had for Ethan.

Yet that longing failed again and again. Countless silent nights found him turning restlessly, awake until dawn.

Sometimes I rose in the dark and caught the wetness at the corner of his eyes, quickly brushed into his hair.

At not thirty, he already had strands of white.

He was an emperor who said emperors should not fear gods or ghosts and should lord over the world. Yet I plainly saw him kneel before the statue of Guanyin, hands clasped, worry carved between his brows. His profile was pious and still.

He begged gods not for good harvests or peace, but for a child.

Dr. Samuel Hayes said his health had never fully recovered from that year in Rivermark; he had been fragile then. Now, with day and night worry, his heart and spirit would surely be harmed.

Leaning on him, I asked innocently, "We already have Jin. Why are you so desperate?"

He took a gulp of cold wine and did not answer. After a long silence he bent to kiss me; his lips tasted faintly of peach blossoms.

"Maybe because of Princess Lynn," Maggie said.

Years ago I bore twins; my little girl was weak and died. I heard Alexander had been devastated, had insisted on a proper burial and even given the little girl a meaningful posthumous title.

I only heard of it because after the birth I came down with a strange illness and lost earlier memories. All I remember is holding two children who both loved to smile.

No wonder. No wonder when I had woken and asked where the other child had gone, he looked at me with that cold, unreadable gaze.

That winter's year-end banquet was merely perfunctory.

Ministers and ladies mocked us as they knelt to see us leave, all assuming we were eager to seize this auspicious day to give the young prince a sibling.

Only I knew Alexander’s body was wasting away day by day — there might be no more children at all.

He stood beneath the peach tree in my yard, head tilted back, eyes closed as he took a deep breath. The cold had drained his face of color; he looked like carved jade.

"Do you know?" he suddenly asked. "The first time I saw you was under the peach tree too."

I was puzzled — he asked "do you know?" not "do you remember?"

I shook my head. "I don't."

He smiled slowly, eyes gleaming. "I saw you burying a wine jar, so I chose you."

Two odd sentences that made little sense.

He smiled at me quietly. "Is there any of that very sweet peach wine left? I want to drink it."

I thought of Dr. Hayes' warnings and hesitated.

He squeezed my hand and enunciated, "I want to drink."

Flower wine rarely intoxicated, but Alexander spoke a lot of nonsense.

He said he'd never liked Ari — she was too timid and naive. What he'd always liked was Claire Bennett, the Claire who didn't care for anyone.

I ruthlessly pointed out the flaw. "You know that's the same person."

His fingers stiffened. "Yes. I know… I've always known…"

That night he coughed up blood. It was strange — the blood almost soaked the bed. He gasped violently, eyes wide, tears slipping down that couldn't be wiped away.

And all that chaos was because of one thing I said.

I remember leaning in his arms, naïvely advising, "You must be good to Prince Ethan."

His voice dropped. "Why?"

"Dr. Hayes said when the emperor was in danger that year in Rivermark, Prince DuPont risked his life to save him. The prince was gravely wounded then; that’s why the prince’s wife has borne no children — from his injuries he could hardly sire any."

"What did you say?"

Alexander clutched my wrist so hard his eyes went bright red. Before I could answer, as if a storm broke inside him, blood gushed from his mouth, staining the linen crimson.

I gave a small, helpless sound and tilted my head. "Now we have to wash the sheets again."

I had never seen that expression on him before.

Despair. Disbelief. A heart emptied of hope.

The light in his eyes shattered. I held his cooling body and quietly told him, "What did I say, Alexander? You can't run."

He really didn't want to accept it.

So I teased cruelly, "I should have told you sooner, but in that state you wouldn't have believed me. Poor our child…probably still crying when he died…"

I clamped my hands at my throat and, voice high and strange, mocked, "Father, save me — Father, save me—"

He expelled a fresh gush of red. I wiped his tears and said softly, "No. No… you're not worthy."

In the end he tilted his head back, blood bright and blooming at his lips. He died in my arms, his eyes still filled with love. I gripped his trembling fingers until they went limp.

He truly loved me. In the sleeping palace he wouldn't allow others to stay — I had snuffed out his last living hope.

"Claire…you…"

That was his last line.

"I'm here."

I simply said I was here. I had to win, so before he died I had to be here.

I watched the life leave his eyes, pressed my face to his, and said with indulgent cruelty, "You died so beautifully. It was a bargain for you."

Was it raining outside?

Thick mist rolled in, and his eyes closed forever. He would never again stand in the rain with cool eyes watching me writhe in the mud of the abyss.

I sank to my knees, feeling nearly empty. I wanted to laugh aloud, but my chest felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

I dared not think it through. Had I really won?

Alexander's death was sudden.

So sudden I didn't even have time to finish feeding him the peach wine I had prepared.

When Dr. Hayes arrived the courtyard still smelled of peach blossom wine, sweet and heady — nothing like the acrid smoke of the cold palace day I gave birth, when a maid who had called me "miss" stayed behind and burned to death.

So much blood spilled, so many sacrifices…what had we gained?

No answer.

Dr. Hayes knelt, panic-stricken. "The dosage…this wine—"

How had I forgotten — he was a physician; one whiff and he'd know what incompatible drugs I'd mixed.

I pressed my forehead and said lightly, "Sorry. I couldn't wait."

He stared with cloudy eyes, speechless for a long moment.

I thought he was frightened, so I comforted him: he'd still be useful; I wouldn't kill him without need.

He sighed, shook his head, and shambled out.

For a flicker I remembered begging him back in the General's residence to save Alexander, swearing I'd go through fire and water for Dr. Hayes.

I cannot be blamed. It wasn't my fault…everything was Alexander's doing.

The state mourning was solemn and long. The Bennett family, seeing us as widowed and childless, started scheming to resurrect their fortunes.

But though Qiongzhou was far, the national mourning reached there too, and under the pretext of attending the funeral, Ethan returned.

I should have gone to meet him, but when I checked my reflection the woman in the copper mirror looked exhausted — lines at her eyes, furrowed brow, the joy had evaporated, leaving only bewilderment and sighs.

So I said, "Let Jin go fetch his uncle…"

When Jin returned his face was sullen. I asked what had happened and he replied darkly, "Mother, guess what my uncle's first words to me were?"

My heart tightened. Before I could force a smile, Jin glanced at me and walked away.

Before his death Alexander had delayed appointing an heir. Now that he was gone and Ethan had returned, factions quietly formed among the ministers and ill intentions began to stir.

But I knew in my bones that Ethan DuPont would never fight Jocelyn for the throne. Even if he had the ability, even if he had the prestige—he wouldn’t.

I saw him next at the new emperor’s coronation.

Jocelyn was young, yet maybe because he’d long been set aside by Alexander, he carried an unusual steadiness for his age. The ceremony was long and intricate; even an adult would sweat and pant through it, but he remained composed, with a certain sovereign grace.

In the public eye, Ethan’s manner seemed reverent and restrained, which quieted a lot of restless plotting.

He straightened his back, his face calm and handsome, not unlike how I remembered him—only his warm, inviting eyes had lost their shine and turned hollow. When he saw me he gave only a cool, fleeting glance.

“Your Majesty Dowager,” he said, bowing with perfect respect.

“One sees the Crown Prince after seven years, and his looks have not changed,” I smiled.

Ethan was silent for a long beat. Just when I thought he wouldn’t speak, he said, “Your hair has gone white, Mother. You seem overly weary.”

My lips curved. No one had ever dared speak to me—the most powerful woman in the harem—that way.

“Sometimes I wonder…” I said softly, looking at the blossoms on a branch, “did Claire Everly actually exist?

Maybe she was only a dream I had. Maybe Claire never saved anyone, never lived in Rivermark at all.”

“She existed,” Ethan replied. “Your Majesty simply hasn’t been yourself in too long.”

I was stunned into silence, then spoke, a little incoherently, “Nobody loved Claire Everly. So I wonder…maybe she should never have—”

“She should,” Ethan cut me off abruptly, looking at me with steady certainty.

A rush of pain flooded me, and all I managed to say was, “Thank you. Thank you, Ethan.”

Three years after Alexander DuPont died, I fell ill without warning.

Not completely without warning.

Alexander had a sharp mind; pretending to be an innocent, bright Claire Everly in front of him hadn’t been easy. After seven years of walking on eggshells, living with the suspended figure of Hazel Bennett mercilessly above me, could I really say I’d been different? Her suffering was skin-deep; mine was bone-deep. I’d clenched my teeth and kept going.

When I finally loosened that grip, my body collapsed like a landslide.

Jocelyn tended me day and night. I had never paid much attention to him before; now, under the dim dusk light, I saw he’d grown tall—he was a man.

“Go fetch the Crown Prince. I wish to see him,” I whispered.

Jocelyn turned to me, eyes dark: “Mother, you should rest. See him when you’re better.”

I frowned at his defiance, irritated: “Go now. I have urgent matters.”

He stared for a long moment, then rose and called for Ethan.

By the time Ethan arrived it was fully dark. I’d slept fitfully, and when I lifted my head to the lamp to look at him, it felt like a lifetime had passed.

He looked like the Ethan I’d known, though I was no longer who I’d been.

Tears slipped down before I could speak. Ethan, who had been kneeling straight-backed, hurried forward and took my hand without words.

He looked at me with tears in his eyes, but couldn’t speak.

“Ethan, truthfully—I don’t want to die either,” I said in ragged breaths. “I fought so hard to get here…how could I want to leave?”

But like a lamp running out of oil, like a tree about to fall, I’d exhausted myself pushing Alexander down. I’d swallowed poisons hidden in wine. I was bone tired, and I deserved death perhaps.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this long ago.”

“Actually…” he began softly.

I laughed and cut him off. “I have one wish. I know you have no taste for the throne. Please—support Jocelyn well. He’s a good child…”

He looked up at me. Candlelight danced across his handsome features, and for a moment I saw our first meeting again.

I rested my forehead against his like that first time and murmured, “Why didn’t I meet you sooner, Your Highness?”

I knew what he wanted to say. That year his elder brother had been killed in the bloody scramble for the crown; Alexander had been gravely wounded and Ethan had saved him, bringing Alexander to Rivermark, setting the path by which Alexander crossed mine.

Maggie had not lied to me. Even someone as base as I was could have someone pure and innocent by my side.

Still, I owed Ethan gratitude. If not for him, I would never have known that someone had once cared for Claire Everly with true heart.

Outside, the imperial guards lay in quiet readiness.

I lay on the couch and watched his silhouette swallow into the vast sleeping chamber and the cold night of the palace.

After Ethan left, Jocelyn came from behind the screen, a cold, aged smile on his face. “I thought you were heart of stone, Mother. Turns out you only are toward me and Father.”

I breathed out and, with an effort, said: “Is that so? You think that if you killed Ethan you could sleep easy? Dream on—”

Perhaps my retort finally lit his fury. He swept a hand and toppled a small desk trinket; a tiny paper tiger—tilted, innocent—rolled to my feet. I wanted to pick it up, but I had no strength. That little tiger had been made by Jocelyn when he was small.

Children raised in this court somehow grow into such unlovable people. Why had I never seen through him?

“Do you remember Maggie?” he asked suddenly.

I paused, and a strangling breath caught in my chest.

Jocelyn stared, his eyes bright and terrible. “Mother, do you sleep peacefully at night?”

“You—”

“Mother, you knew everything, didn’t you?”

My body trembled but my mind was clearer than it had ever been. “What are you saying?”

“We were never twins,” he said. “Your child was only ever Maggie. You…you killed her, didn’t you?”

He tilted his head and smiled. Strands of dark hair fell across his cheek, making his handsome features sharper.

“She’s the one your father killed!”

“What are you babbling?” I shouted, hands shaking. “Who put these lies in your head? Who told you this? Tell me!”

Jocelyn’s mouth curved. “No one lies. I saw everything.”

“No—impossible,” I cried out.

“Maggie told you back then—if you stopped, if you softened, and presented your children as twins, you would have a good ending.”

He mocked my expression. “I saw exactly how you killed Maggie, how you hid her—I saw it all.”

“No,” I whispered.

“Of course not,” he said, gently lifting my head. He smiled and said, “Look at me. Do I look like Jocelyn?”

“You’re not Jocelyn?” I thought of Maggie—her strange, plausible role—and wondered if Jocelyn, too, was a stranger who’d arrived from elsewhere.

“In a way, yes. And in a way, no.” He took my hand and laid it against his cheek. “If you had left Maggie that day, do you know how it would have ended?”

“I would have reconciled with Alexander,” I said quietly. “You and Maggie would have been true twins.”

I had never forgotten Maggie’s promised ending; but given the choice, I would still have chosen the other path. Alexander owed me that.

“Not only that,” he continued, tone thin, “Father would have even made Maggie the ruler, even though she was a woman.”

He smiled bleakly. “And I—because I wasn’t your blood—would be buried under fame, my days in darkness. Even if I slaughtered the court, Maggie never looked my way. I died by her sword. Did you shed a tear for me?…

I saw everything. Aunt Maggie told you what would happen if you sent Maggie away…Mother, you knew. You were wonderful—you got rid of my greatest rival for me.”

Outside came the clash of steel—Ethan had been surrounded by Jocelyn’s men. I felt my chest constrict; Jocelyn leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Since you would stop at nothing, Mother, how could your child be any gentler? I’ve woken from nightmares: you smearing Maggie’s blood on my face back then—I could still smell it: metallic, sweet, warm.

You held me and said…‘Good child, don’t be afraid. The world is mine,’ didn’t you?”

He buried his face in my lap and asked softly, “Mother…look into my eyes and tell me again—whose world is this, really?”

This unfilial son.

Of course I never had anyone innocent by my side.

The sky went bright, then dark again.

[Alexander DuPont side story: In the End, It Was All for Nothing] Alexander had a recurring nightmare he'd had for years.

A nightmare.

He remembered one stormy evening when he hid behind the bead curtain and watched the woman he’d called mother strangle his real mother with her own hands.

The night before, his mother had whispered there would be a baby sister; he’d been overjoyed.

In the palace brothers and sisters picked on him, forced him to kneel, slapped him, mocked his birth. They were cruel, but to their real mother’s children they were tender.

Alexander had been happy that he might have someone to protect, that he would be a real brother.

But now, looking at his mother’s forever-still head, he wanted to tell her he didn’t want a sister anymore. He only wanted her.

He couldn’t sleep for nights. He constantly thought: why are there things others have that I don’t? Why can’t I keep the things I want?

The small calligraphy his third brother was praised for—Alexander had written it. The jade bangle they threw into the lake—his mother’s last keepsake. And the swelling of their stepmother’s belly.

It wasn’t fair.

That baby could have been his sister—but if she emerged from that belly, she’d become his enemy.

An enemy.

The seed of hatred took root and grew with him, never stopping, spreading like wildfire.

Later, Mother Empress misstepped down the palace stairs and died—two lives lost in one fall—and her shoe soles were still stained with the osmanthus oil she loved.

Third Brother fell from his crazed horse and never again could hold a brush steady; Father sighed that such beautiful handwriting had been wasted.

A few princes egged Thirteen on to dive for that bracelet, and Thirteen went.

He frowned. Thirteen looked innocent, and he only stood by with cold eyes, not interfering.

Who told Thirteen he could call the crown prince's mother “low-born maid”? Wasn't that started by the crown prince himself?

But then Thirteen leapt from the lake and rose up holding the bracelet, shouting, “Sam! I found it!”

For a moment he had to admit he felt something like softness.

Later, Thirteen became his only true friend, saving his life in dire straits; when his own elder brother, the crown prince, was murdered by the third prince, Thirteen stubbornly helped him take the throne.

Ethan would never learn that the crown prince and the third prince had long been locked in stalemate—how the third prince, who had coveted the crown for years yet dared not act, suddenly got the nerve to kill the crown prince and slay the emperor… but that didn’t matter anymore.

What mattered was: when the two tigers fought and he watched, he came out the absolute victor.

Alexander had no family, no faith, nothing he could call beautiful; the only rule he held sacred was a single sentence:

Better I wrong the world.

What a lovely creed—if only he hadn’t met the one person he could truly call his nemesis.

He really hated Claire Bennett. Every time he saw her foolish, open-hearted ways it made him want to strangle her from the bottom of his heart.

How could she be so stupid?

Climb a tree and she’d fall. Bury liquor and she’d get buried. Whatever she tried, she would end up flat on her face.

How long could she survive inside the palace?

Yet when they were in Rivermark, he had to rely on her—use her to climb to her sly old father.

He had to pretend to be enamored. He always mocked romantic love, and he was bad at pretending, but her stupidity made the act smooth and steady.

Hazel Bennett had been a part of the third prince’s faction. Now that the third prince was branded a patricidal traitor and routed by the crown prince’s men, Hazel’s appearance was undoubtedly destiny fulfilled.

He patiently took Hazel’s hand—and, as expected, ran into Claire.

She looked so innocent, but he felt no guilt at all.

Alexander DuPont, it seemed, had never possessed such a thing as “guilt.”

They met again on a stormy night. He, compelled by some strange force, put down the dispatch and quietly climbed to the eaves.

The rain that night was so fierce he could hardly bear to watch.

He ordered Chief Steward Robert to send a physician to the Bennett residence, dispatching him disguised as a steward.

“But what pretext?” the steward asked.

Alexander chose what he thought was perfect: to deliver mourning clothes.

Who ever delivered mourning clothes in a downpour?

He didn’t care. He even went out of his way to ask which pattern Hazel liked, and dragged a dusty garment from the storeroom.

He guessed Claire would understand—he was telling her the brutal truth; he was telling her to let go.

To his utter surprise, she didn’t let go. Instead, she turned her attention right back to him.

He was furious. That intimate collision, that mingling of lips and tongues made him sick.

A secret, sudden emotion grew in him and terrified him.

The night before, she had whispered “Sam” into his ear—he knew she was testing if he felt anything; she was trying to disgust him, so he made sure she didn’t have it easy.

He called her Ari through the night, even though he knew perfectly well who the woman entwined with him truly was.

He should have killed her then, but at the last moment he softened—couldn’t explain why.

Later, when Hazel moved into the central palace, he conferred the title Consort Anne on Claire—Anne, meaning peace—hoping the name would soothe her and make her less reckless.

But Hazel was the one who struck first.

When a spy reported that the empress had prepared a lethal potion, he sat numb and thought, enough already—why were the women in his harem so foolish? They were worlds apart from the cunning, poisonous consorts of the previous emperor.

Almost without hesitation, he chose to keep Claire alive, but he did not kill Hazel.

He’d thought: with the empress gone, whether Hazel lived or died was secondary; keeping her a lowly life to balance Hazel Bennett might be useful.

He’d always acted cleanly and decisively; sparing lives was only if those lives might be useful later.

He didn’t realize Hazel’s life that he’d kept would only serve as an outlet for Claire’s fury.

Every time a spy reported, “Ethan has entered the palace again,” and the light in Consort Anne’s chambers burned late, a nameless jealousy and envy gnawed at him until he nearly went mad.

She was just another woman—what harm if she was given to someone else? Since when had Alexander DuPont cared for honor, morals, or propriety?

Yet why, why did he keep opening his eyes at dawn?

Like those sleepless childhood nights, at daybreak he resolved to take back what was his.

Even if he didn’t like her, she was his; not even Ethan could steal her.

He knew—he was as entangled as anyone.

But he refused to think too deeply; he comforted himself that his concern was merely the anger of someone whose possessions were coveted. Yes—just anger.

He exiled Ethan to far Qiongzhou, to the borderlands. He wanted to control his own things.

That day he finally faced his fear.

The pregnancy was far along; aborting it would endanger Claire’s life. He swallowed his loathing and pretended indifference as he watched her carry another man’s child.

Alexander thought coldly, it’s okay. Many born children don’t survive anyway.

The physician predicted the due date was still ahead, but floods hit outside the palace, unrest spread—he had to convince himself to leave the palace.

He watched her sit on the swing in the cold palace, staring blankly, without her usual spark.

Ethan had made her think of him. He deserved to die.

Truly.

He didn’t have time to strike Ethan. While away from the palace, he heard—Claire had a premature birth and the cold chambers burned. The news struck him like lightning, and the world went black.

In that endless dark, he could not deny it any longer: he probably loved Claire Bennett.

He decided not to run away anymore.

When he returned, he ruthlessly cut down the brazen women of the harem, ignoring whatever backing those concubines had.

He only wanted to make Claire’s life quieter; she looked so tired.

When she forced a smile holding the child that wasn’t hers, she looked exhausted.

He didn’t expose her; he was too addicted to that brief, deadly sweetness. He thought, let’s pretend like this forever, Claire.

But it was impossible. She had coldly traded the child, and the next step would be regicide.

They shared a bed but kept their secrets.

Her feigned obedience now only disarmed him; the more he indulged, the more he resented the child she had borne for another man.

How could he pretend not to care?

He even pictured what his daughter with Claire would look like. Holding Claire’s little girl, he’d sometimes go numb, then the child’s cries would pound his head.

Children were so fragile—such soft faces, tiny hands and feet—how wonderful if that child were his.

Finally he hardened his heart. In his madness he convinced himself: remove this sin, and he and Claire could have a new start.

Remove her, remove the sin… Dr. Samuel Hayes’s medicine would work—it would.

The medicine did work, but only bought him seven short years.

At some point he noticed the deep weariness behind her gentle smiles, like a mask slowly cracking at one corner.

He wanted to be on guard, but he was so tired.

Having a child of their own became his obsessive thought, but it kept failing, failing, failing.

He was utterly exhausted. He’d survived a lifetime of scheming and plots, yet now he was bone-deep tired.

So once more, he drank with her, bitter inside but smiling on the surface.

Until she said aloud it was him who killed her child.

He could not smile after that.

He thought of that child’s clear eyes.

Everything felt unbearably heavy; he was too tired.

At last he forced his eyes wide and looked up, but the sight before him remained an endless black.

No one knew he was terribly afraid of the dark.

No—maybe someone did. One year there had been a little lantern that never dimmed for Sam to ease his misery… perhaps it was karma. He almost laughed—who could blame him for feigning blindness all those years?

A cold liquid dripped on his face.

A suffocating ache in his chest, and he squeezed a word through his teeth: “You—”

Then he closed his eyes forever.

She would never know what he had meant to say—Claire, don't cry. The root of your lifelong suffering is that neither your kindness nor your malice is pure enough.

You should be crueler.

Don’t cry.

He remembered that windy year, the breeze lifting the dark hair at her temples.

The end.

[Ethan’s extra chapter: all he wanted was an Ari]

Ethan’s first meeting with Claire Bennett—he gave her a gift that changed her life.

He placed the gravely wounded Alexander on the path Claire would take home, and, dragging his shattered body, lured the pursuers away alone.

First, scouts reported Claire’s mother knew medicine and Claire herself was naive and trusting; second, Hazel Bennett would never expect that the man she’d set a net for would be hiding in her own daughter’s home. So in every way, Claire was the perfect candidate to “save” Alexander.

When he left he only glanced at the girl from afar—who could know he would regret that meticulous plan for the rest of his life?

When they met again, he watched the girl calmly burn paper offerings for her dead mother. Saying he felt no guilt would be self-deception; the palace is a battlefield—so many lives were lost chasing the throne, how could one stop?

Claire wasn’t as stupid as Sam said. Her eyes seemed misted; when she looked at you, you felt as if she were smiling—but she wasn’t.

She was watching.

At first sight she decided Ethan would be the first stepping stone on her path of vengeance.

She lowered her gaze and gave him a calm, emotionless little smile.

He fell for it.

She proposed an alliance without once asking what he wanted; in her subconscious, he ought to obey, to submit.

Ethan sometimes felt inexplicably wronged but dared not say more.

He wasn’t interested in the throne; he wasn’t interested in anything.

Except her.

He was born a happy, lively child—youngest of the line, legitimate heir, and forever indulged.

Not that he never took that favor for granted. But whenever Sam was bullied, he couldn’t help stepping in for him, even though Sam usually shrugged him off.

That didn’t change how much he admired Sam. He had so many older brothers, yet none were like Sam—brilliant but reserved, cautious and imperious at once.

He was a walking contradiction.

Sam was meant for greatness; he’d known that since childhood.

His admiration for Sam never wavered—until he met Ari.

Then doubts crept in about Sam, about himself.

Why sacrifice another’s life to polish your own glory?

Why must cold-bloodedness be the royal way?

It was an unsolvable riddle.

During those seven years in Rivermark, he thought he’d come to terms with it. But the moment he saw Ari again, his eyes flooded.

Because the cause of all that suffering was not some distant enemy—it was him.

Past memories faded away, one by one.

All he wanted now was Ari.

– The End –
□ Pretty woman, big belly

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